“I’m pretty sure I’m the strategy professional here,” I say absently.
“When it comes to data, numbers, and algorithms, yes. Not when it comes to seduction. That’s where I’m the professional, and my long roster of relationships attests to it.”
“You call fuck-buddies relationships?”
“No, the media does, and I never turn down publicity. So, strategy.” Keith clears his throat, turning business-like. “Tell me about the afterparty.”
“It’s for the drivers, team, and sponsors to mingle,” I say. “Everyone from the team istechnicallyinvited, but usually only the important people show their faces. I amnotimportant enough to go.”
Then why am I clutching the dress?
“Didn’t you say that a sponsor showed interest in your work? Malibu Barbie’s dad?”
I pause. “Yes.”
“Excellent. So, you go to talk to him since you didn’t have a chance to this week, update him on the race, and maybe work him as an investor for your program. Don’t you need money for it?”
“I don’t know. MIT funded all the basic research I needed before getting started, but I guess when it’s finished it might.” I haven’t really thought about that as much as I should.
“Well, it’s nearing completion, isn’t it? So, go work a potential investor, wear something hot, and then take one of the most beautiful men in the world for a spin when he shows up. Simple as that.”
“Simple?” I repeat dubiously.
But… it is. All I need is some confidence to execute the plan, along with a fuckload of courage, because if Asher lets me down or confirms he’s dating—which is seeming increasingly less likely—I’ll be humiliated beyond saving.
“Yes, simple. Text Malibu Barbie if you really want a good reason to be there. Say she invited you.”
“I got a text from her half an hour ago about it,” I murmur. She always messages me about team events. We’ve taken to having coffee at HQ together whenever we can manage it, and I’m finding she’s not as airheaded or unpleasant as I first assumed.
“Perfect, so you already have your reason for showing up. You’re there to talk to her and maybe her father. Let the rest of the cards fall as they will. Now, I’m going tohang up, and you’re going to get prettied up and go out. Deal?”
Shit, shit, shit. I’m actually going to go for it. “Yeah. Deal.”
“That’s my girl.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Victoria
Ispend another half hour agonizing over how I look and have a brief text exchange with Amanda, who promises to meet me in front of the club.
I put a long trenchcoat over my dress for the cab ride, mindful of being in a conservative country. From my understanding, Bahrain’s more relaxed than most of the Gulf, but I’d rather be respectful than oblivious.
The club hosting the party for Gaston is only about a ten-minute drive away from the hotel, and every minute that ticks by heightens my anxiety.
Outside the window, Manama at night is a city of glass towers and light. The streets are alive with traffic and neon high-rises glittering overhead, with clusters of people moving between restaurants and shisha lounges spilling warmth onto the sidewalks. By the time the car pulls up in front of the club, a sleek, sand-colored building with a black glass façade and gold lit entrance, I’m close to hyperventilating.
A long line of people wait outside of the club, all neatly tucked in a line behind a velvet rope. Apparently, I’m the only girl who thought it wise to be on the conservative side, because it’s bulging cleavage and short skirts all around.
What the hell am Idoing?Am I really just going to strut in there in my heels and short dress and… I don’t know, ask Asher if he’s dating? If he says yes, this mission will be a huge disappointment; if he says no, then what?
I haven’t had sex inyears.I barely remember how it’s supposed to go, beyond the basics. I’ve never actually had to flirt with someone; all of my relationships have been a natural product of spending a lot of time with classmates.
I’m about to ask the driver to take me back to the hotel when Amanda steps out of the glass door and onto the sidewalk. She spots me through the window of the cab, and her face lights up with a beam. She trots up to the car, an impressive feat in herfive-inchheels, and opens the door. Pulsing bass permeates the air even outside the club—I can’t imagine how loud it’ll be inside.
“You made it!” she squeals.
No turning back now. I hand the driver his payment and reluctantly step out of the car.
